by Philip Kerr
‘Thank you, Superintendent,’ Gilmour interrupted. ‘There’s no need to read the whole list.’
‘Superintendent,’ said Woodford. ‘Have your scenes-of-crime people found anything?’ He pursed his lips and shook his head as if trying to find something to prompt Bowles. ‘Clues?’
‘Clues?’ Bowles looked pained at the very mention of the word. ‘No, sir, we haven’t found any of those.’
‘And what about witnesses?’ he continued. ‘Did anyone see or hear anything?’
Bowles smiled nervously as if suddenly aware that he was speaking to someone who had only the vaguest idea of what he was asking. ‘Unlikely they’ll have heard anything, sir,’ he said. ‘As I said before, the killer used a gas-gun to murder his victim. It’s totally silent.’ He nodded slowly. ‘But it’s early days and we’re still making our enquiries.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Woodford glanced around the table. ‘Anyone else?’
‘Perhaps the Detective Chief Inspector,’ the Minister said helpfully. ‘This is your field of expertise, isn’t it? What was that curiously tabloid phrase you employed in your lecture? “The Hollywood-style murder”, wasn’t it?’
Jake sat up in her chair. ‘With respect, ma’am, that refers exclusively to the recreational murder of women.’
‘But this is a case of recreational murder,’ Mrs Miles insisted. ‘I can’t see that it matters much whether it’s a man or a woman. Surely there must be some common denominators?’
‘I have no questions for the Superintendent,’ Jake said firmly.
‘Thank you, Superintendent, that will be all for the moment.’
Gilmour’s thumb ended the satellite link and for a moment the room was silent.
Jake appraised her surroundings. It was the kind of all too common meeting-room in which comfort had yielded to colour, geometry and functionality. The kind of room that made her feel like a plastic toy in some architect’s model. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised to have looked out of a window and seen tree-foliage that was made of foam rubber.
‘How many is it now, Mr Gilmour?’ asked Mrs Miles.
‘This makes the eighth killing, in as many months.’
‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of just how sensitive a matter this could become.’
‘No indeed, Minister.’
‘The Lombroso Program has cost millions of dollars,’ she continued. ‘True, it’s just part of the increased spending on law enforcement and crime prevention to which, time and again, this Government has committed itself. But it is perhaps the flagship of that general policy. It would be unfortunate if the Program had to be interrupted or even scrapped because of this maniac.’
‘Quite so, Minister.’
‘I cannot sufficiently underline just how electorally damaging it might be if the press were to make this thing public,’ she said. ‘The fact that the Lombroso Program itself is the only common factor in eight murders. You can see that, can’t you?’
Gilmour nodded.
‘But we can only keep the press off it for so long. Journalists have a nasty habit of going up against Government on this kind of thing. Even if it is something that’s covered by the Secrecy and Information Act.’
She glanced at Professor Waring who was occupied in the creation of an elaborate doodle on the triangular-shaped blotter in front of him.
‘And what do your inkblots tell us this time, Norman?’ she said crisply.
Waring continued with his doodle for a few seconds. He spoke slowly.
‘We’ve gone a little way past using the perception of unstructured forms as a diagnostic tool,’ he said punctiliously, adding a wry smile to the remark.
‘I want some ideas, Norman,’ she said. ‘If this psycho stops the Program your research might find it never recovers from the shock. If you receive my meaning.’
Waring shrugged with frustration. ‘With all due respect, Minister, we don’t yet know that he is a psycho.’ He looked meaningfully at Gilmour. ‘No more than the police know how to catch him. I’ve spoken about this matter with Professor Gleitmann on many occasions and he still has no idea how such a breach of security might have occurred. I myself am unable to imagine how such a thing might even be possible.’
‘Nevertheless,’ the Minister insisted, ‘it has happened.’
There followed another uncomfortable silence. This time it was Jake who ended it.
‘If I might make a suggestion - ’
‘Yes, well that’s why we’re all here, Chief Inspector.’
‘Surely the fact remains that somehow a breach of the Lombroso Program’s security has occurred, whether one likes it or not. As I see it, the priority must be to establish whether that breach occurred from within or from without. Only when that question has been answered can an investigation properly proceed.’
Professor Waring returned to his doodle. ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘How much do you know about the Program?’
Jake shrugged. ‘Only what I’ve read in the newspapers, and seen on television.’
Waring began to score aggressively at the centre of his drawing. ‘Then have you any idea what it is that you are suggesting? The Lombroso computer system is highly sophisticated. To suggest, as blithely as you do, that it might be possible to breach the system’s security is almost as nonsensical as the idea that one of Gleitmann’s own staff could have something to do with this whole dreadful business.’
‘Nonsensical or not, sir, those are the only two logical possibilities.’
Waring snorted and shook his head impatiently. The doodle was starting to look more like an engraving.
‘What would you do, Chief Inspector Jakowicz?’ asked Mark Woodford. ‘If it was you who was in charge of this particular investigation?’
Jake ran through a few ideas in her head. Then she said: ‘Well, sir, the first thing I would do would be to have the Yard’s Computer Crime Unit assign me their best man. I’d have him take a look at the Lombroso computer and try to find out what happened. What I would also do - ’ Jake hesitated for a moment as she wondered how best to approach her next suggestion.
Woodford was typing her ideas onto his PC. He looked up expectantly. ‘Yes?’
It seemed to Jake that there was no other way but to be direct. ‘ — is polygraph all the staff working on the Lombroso Program.’
Waring tossed his pen onto the table. As it bounced it left a little line of ink droplets on the polished walnut table. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ he snarled. ‘Chief Inspector, you cannot seriously think that one of Professor Gleitmann’s staff could be lying.’
He fixed her with a sharply-pointed stare which Jake did her hard-eyed best to blunt. ‘Either one of his staff, or Professor Gleitmann himself,’ she offered provocatively.
Waring let out a burst of indignant air which the Minister and her secretary seemed to find amusing. But Jake hadn’t finished.
‘With respect, sir,’ she said to Woodford, ‘it is the only logical course for any investigation while there continues to be an absence of any — ’ She found herself half-smiling as she prepared to utter what was for her an infrequently used word. ‘ — clues.’ The word prompted a picture of herself winding in a ball of thread to find her way out of a maze. ‘We must start from the inside and work out,’ she added. ‘The Program itself holds the key to establishing some kind of a pattern to these killings. But while we persist in trying to address only the exterior facts of each case, there will be no progress.’
To Jake’s surprise she found the Minister agreeing with her. ‘That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard all day,’ said Mrs Miles.
‘Minister — ’
She turned her handsome profile to Waring and silenced him with a wave of her heavily-ringed hand. Jake noticed a manicure that looked less than Ministerial. Mrs Miles had fingernails that were the shape and colour of pieces of orange peel.
‘No, Norman, the Chief Inspector’s correct. Perhaps that’s what this investigatio
n really needs - a woman’s perspective, just as the Chief Inspector was telling us in her lecture this morning. After all, we don’t seem to have got very far with a man in charge of it, do we?’ Mrs Miles ignored Professor Waring’s attempt to interrupt her again. ‘Perhaps some of that attention to fine detail for which women are so distinguished is just what has been lacking until now.’ She smiled as she added, ‘And a little less phallocentrism around here certainly wouldn’t do any harm.’ She turned to the Assistant Police Commissioner.
‘John,’ she said. ‘I want you to make sure that Chief Inspector Jakowicz is assigned to take charge of this investigation. Is that clear?’
Gilmour nodded uncomfortably. He hated being told how to handle an inquiry by anyone, least of all a politician, and more especially, the Minister herself. But at the same time Gilmour had the feeling that what Jake had said was right and that she was indeed the right person for the job.
‘Is that all right with you, Chief Inspector?’ said Mrs Miles.
Jake, who was slightly taken aback at the speed of the Minister’s decision and the imperious way in which it had been communicated to herself and Gilmour, shrugged uncertainly. She thought of the enormous case-load waiting for her back at the Yard and of the consternation her new assignment would cause her superior, Chief Superintendent Challis. She thought of the pleasure that Challis’s consternation at being removed from the case would afford her and found herself nodding. ‘Fine by me, ma’am,’ she said. ‘However, I would like to keep my finger on the pulse of one particular investigation I’ve been handling.’ Jake was thinking of the lipstick on Mary Woolnoth’s body, her face battered to a pulp, and how much she’d like to catch the man who had killed her. ‘In fact, I should insist on it.’
Mrs Miles smiled broadly, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. It was a good smile. The sort of smile that won votes. The sort of smile that had helped Mrs Miles capitalise on her athletic career as a 100- and 200-metre Olympic Gold medallist and put her into the House of Commons at the early age of twenty-nine.
‘I have no problems with that,’ she said. ‘Good. That’s settled then. Mark?’
‘Minister?’
‘I want you to call Professor Gleitmann and tell him that he’s to extend the Chief Inspector and her team whatever cooperation she deems appropriate. You too, Norman? You got that?’
Waring nodded sullenly.
Mrs Miles stood up and walked like a big strong cat to the impossibly tall door, attended by her secretary. Waring followed at an embittered distance. On her way out, the Minister turned on her high heel, tightening the material of her already tight skirt against the curve of her muscular buttock and her pantieline.
‘Oh and Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes?’ said Jake.
‘Please don’t disappoint me. I want results. And I want them quickly. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that I usually get my way. But when I don’t I’m apt to be rather vindictive. Do you understand me?’
‘I think so, Minister,’ said Jake. She didn’t doubt that Grace Miles would make sure Jake’s career was effectively blocked and re-directed into one dead-end or another.
‘Well,’ said the APC when he and Jake were alone. ‘You walked right into that one.’
She smiled wryly. ‘Looks like it, sir.’
‘Oh I don’t doubt that you may have the right idea about this investigation and exactly how it should proceed. But I would hate to lose one of my best detectives merely because of the whim of a Junior Minister with a nettle down her panties. She doesn’t seem to like you very much. She might like to see you fall flat on your face with this particular inquiry.’
‘Maybe.’ Jake shrugged.
‘You know, I could always have a word with Sir MacDonald when we get back to London. Have him persuade Mrs Miles that he would rather someone else handled this.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘What am I talking about? Someone else is handling this.’
‘Challis.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to get this collar, sir,’ she said. ‘If I can.’
‘She affected you that much eh? The bitch. Well, if you’re sure you want to. I’ll back you all the way. But what am I going to tell Challis?’
‘How about telling him you want me to take charge of the day-to-day enquiries?’ Jake suggested. ‘That you think a fresh viewpoint is required. That you think he’s too important to get involved in the inquiry itself. Perhaps he could continue to exercise some kind of executive role.’
Gilmour grunted. ‘Doesn’t sound all that convincing,’ he said. ‘Never mind. I’ll think of something.’ He picked up his briefcase and placed it on his lap, before rummaging in its contents and withdrawing a box of computer disks. He thumbed one out and handed it to Jake.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘This’ll tell you everything you need to know about the Lombroso Program.’
For me, the realisation that I am a freak was not the result of a childhood’s accumulation of unkind remarks about my appearance. Nor, for that matter, was it the consequence of an inadvertently-placed mirror, a job-offer in a circus-sideshow, a horrified plastic-surgeon, or a callously disinterested schoolgirl. Rather the dawning was the outcome of an esoterically designed medical test for which I volunteered following a severe attack of the law and orders. One minute I was, to all intents and purposes, normal. Fifteen minutes later I was a medical curiosity occurring in only three cases in a hundred thousand.
The order of the number series is not governed by an external relation but by an internal relation.
Yes, indeed, internal. The essence of my freakishness cannot be perceived by the sense-data of others any more than I can perceive it myself. But of course it has been established empirically and therefore, from a phenomenological point of view, my freakish state is not a matter of simple apriorism, even if it has had the existential result of revealing my true situation in the world.
Of course, I always knew I was different. Nothing so ordinary as somatype - I am in fact the classic ectomorph. Were you to see me naked, you would be confronted with a thin, male body, of delicate build, and lightly muscled. It is possible that this may have been a contribtcting factor. According to Sheldon’s hypothesis, the dimensions of my ectomorphic, sand-kicked-in-my-face physique make me temperamentally inclined to the cerebrotonial personality type, which is characterised by self-consciousness, overreactiveness, and a preference for privacy. But then I also exhibit a few of the characteristics of the average somatotonial personality type, which is characterised by a desire for power and dominance, and which Sheldon associates with the more muscular, mesomorphic physical type. So let’s forget about anything so crude as my physical characteristics. Let’s agree that it has nothing to do with the kind of guy I am. This sort of thing really only works in Shakespeare.
Knowledge of my difference was quite naturally tempered with an awareness of what the philosophers tell us is simply solipsism - the theory that nothing exists except me and my mental states. So I have no real evidence to support the perception that I was different in that I considered my mental states to be unusual. Anyone else reading this account would doubtless be quickly able to judge whether or not my thought processes make me different. But since the essential nature of what I am writing is introspective then that’s really not much help either. Really, all I have to go on is the existence of an altogether separate psychopathological syndrome and a novel by Keith Waterhouse.
With Tourette’s Syndrome there exists such a disorganisation of thinking that the individual finds himself shouting out obscenities wherever he may be. Billy Liar describes the adventures of a young man who, strictly speaking, is not a liar at all, but merely suffers from an unfettered imagination which constantly causes him to construct elaborate fantasies - to alternate upon reality, as George Steiner has described this.
Consider then a combination of these two: Tourette’s and an uncontrolled fantasy world. Consider me.
A trip to the macromarket is
a walk on the wild side. Mentally armed with a selection of military hardware I maim, rape and murder my way along the High Street. A dog tied to a lamppost and barking for its master makes an easy target for my Magnum .47. An old lady dragging her shopping-trolley behind her like a miniature chariot and impeding my self-important path is blasted aside with the hand-held rocket launcher. A grenade dropped into a busker’s guitar-case makes mincemeat of him and his instrument: the neck of the guitar, flying through the air, crashes through a car windscreen and then the head of the driver who has had the temerity to sound his horn at me. A child’s balloon is easily burst with a dab of my cigarette. A woman in a short, tight skirt is bent over the macromarket’s checkout desk, her underwear ripped off her quivering backside and then raped mercilessly from behind. A black man, dropping a handful of litter onto the pavement, is toasted with a short burst of my flame-thrower.
A series of pictures which Goya might have painted, or Michael Winner might have filmed.
A picture is a model of reality. A picture is a fact. It is impossible to tell from the picture alone whether it is true or false. All right then, I can compare it with reality. But there are no pictures which are true a priori. Whatever it is you happen to be thinking about.
To look at me of course you would think that I was probably a well-adjusted sort of person. Well we’re not talking Mr Edward Hyde here, let’s face it. Catch me trampling over some innocent child’s body to leave her screaming on the road. No way. I am courteous and well-mannered, opening doors for ladies and helping young mothers with their push-chairs on the escalators. The usual stuff. And though I say so myself, not bad looking, if a trifle thoughtful.
In Victorian times, Cesare Lombroso, the Italian criminologist, thought that criminality could be explained anatomically, using ethesiometer and craniometer to weigh and measure the skull. Not enough forehead or too much lower jaw were the visible indicators that you might be a wrong ’un. He was the first criminal anthropologist.
